


Spectre

by haylznoel



Category: Phantom of the Opera (2004), Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: F/M, Genderbending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-06
Packaged: 2018-01-07 06:21:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1116532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haylznoel/pseuds/haylznoel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chorus dancer turned lead tenor Christian Daae finds himself trapped in a dangerous duet with what he believed to be his Angel of Music, who turns out to be the mysterious woman who lives beneath the Opera Garnier. It falls on his childhood sweetheart Rachelle DeChagny to go head-to-head with the fabled Phantom of the Opera for Christian's love, as well as his safety.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hannibal

“And if you ladies will just follow me this way…”

The theatre truly was as magnificent on the inside as it was from the outside. The crown jewel of Paris, ornately adorned in flawlessly-polished marble, elaborate golden statuary, luxurious crimson velvet curtains and seats, the whole thing crested in one massive crystal chandelier. The two women beamed with exhilaration as they followed the manager throughout its awe-inspiring lobby, intricate backstage areas, and finally the gorgeous performance space. Madame Lefevre spoke of each archway and staircase and opulent furnishment with sad, matronly pride. Clearly she was very fond of her beloved Opera House, and agreeing to sell it to the two women she led towards the stage now had not been an easy decision to make.

Madame Lefevre stopped at the edge of the stage and shushed them, acknowledging the actors currently moving about. “I do apologize, I thought the dress rehearsal would have ended by now. As you know, we’re preparing to open ‘Hannibal’ tonight.”

An expertly-trained tenor commanded center-stage, belting out the title number assisted by scores of chorus singers and dancers, while stagehands tirelessly worked the set pieces and larger props around him. In the pit, a tittering and put-upon woman was rapidly gesturing to the orchestra members, singers, and dancers simultaneously. The show was clearly going to be a huge hit.

“Madame, you haven’t mentioned yet… Why have you decided to retire?”

Madame Lefevre, intently watching her performers, hesitated a moment before vaguely muttering something about health concerns as the number came to it’s crescendo and astounding finish. Before her companions could ask further, stepped out onto the stage to interrupt a heated argument between the lead tenor and the exasperated conductor.

“How do you expect me to sing under these conditions?” The tenor was demanding, gesticulating dramatically.

“Signor, I assure you, I am doing my best,” the woman replied with growing impatience, stepping out of the pit and up onto the stage to face the singer on even ground.

“If you please,” Madame Lefevre put in before they could continue, then, turning to the other women accompanying her, “This, of course, is our leading tenor, Signor Carlos Giudicelli, and our maestra Madame Reyer. Signor, Madame, these are the new managers, Madame Rita Firmin and Madame Jeanette Andre.”

Signor Giudicelli, caught somewhat off-guard by the interruption, snapped instantly from dissatisfied, demanding divo into a smiling and humble gentleman. He apologized hurriedly for his state, acknowledging his elaborate opera costume and adjusting the ginger curls of his wig under it’s gold ornamentation. He expressed several sentiments in his native Italian, took each woman’s hand and kissed it with a wink and a dazzling smile. Madame Reyer, alternately, offered no greeting or smile, and simply shook her new managers hands stiffly before returning to instruct her orchestra. Obviously not everyone was pleased with the new business arrangement. And that fact was only further illustrated by the next introduction that was made.

“Oh, Monsieur Giry, if you have a moment…”

A stern-looking man with hair as jet-black as the clothes he wore, a cane propped between his folded hands, turned from snapping commands at a handful of dancers to acknowledge the three women, looking down his nose at them.

“Monsieur Giry is our ballet master and he is brilliant,” Madame Lefevre was gushing as she made the introductions.

“Madame Lefevre flatters me,” he said without the barest hint of amusement in his voice, “And, unfortunately, she also interrupts my rehearsal. If you ladies would please stand to one side…”

Lefevre, Firmin, and Andre obeyed as Monsieur Giry snapped his fingers and commanded his dancers into place. A smattering of fresh-faced young men and women took to the stage, poised in their perfect positions as they waited for the cue to start from the orchestra. The music started up with an adept wave of Madame Reyer’s hand and the dancers sprung to life, weaving their intricate dance between one another. Amongst the graceful arcs of arms and legs, Monsieur Giry would occasionally step in to make a correction, and when he was satisfied, came to stand by the two new managers and watch the ballet.

Of the male dancers, one in particular, face fixed in a look of concentration under a head of golden blonde curls, stood out from the rest. “That blonde boy certainly has talent,” Madame Firmin pointed out politely. For the first time, a slight smile teased on Monsieur Giry’s stern lips.

“That’s my son Marcus,” he said with a hint of fatherly pride in his voice, before snapping to another dreamy-looking dancer with brown hair and eyes, “Daae, pay attention to your footwork!”

“Daae?” Madame Andre tapped her chin, “Where have I heard that name before?”

“Probably that boy’s mother,” Monsieur Giry put in with a small, barely-detectable sigh, “When she was alive she was a rather well-known violinist. Unfortunately she is no longer with us, and her head-in-the-clouds son Christian has been training here since he was orphaned.”

“You seem terribly interested in dancing boys,” a sudden loud voice pierced the performance area and interrupted the ballet rehearsal. Heads turned to see a livid Signor Giudicelli standing by with arms crossed across his chest, head cocked to one side. “I can’t help but notice the same attention was not warranted to my aria.”

“Signor Giudicelli,” Madame Lefevre started.

“Maybe if the ballet is just so terribly interesting,” Carlos continued, paying Madame Lefevre no mind, “I shouldn’t bother singing at all. As a matter of fact, I don’t think I will be. Good day.” With that he turned on his heel and made a beeline for the door, unleashing long strings of demands on his various attendants. The leading soprano, Ubalda Piangi, turned up her nose and followed suit, keeping close behind him and leaving Madames Firmin and Andre bewildered. Madame Lefevre turned to them and threw up her hands.

“Madames Managers,” she said, incensed, “I believe this to be your jurisdiction now.”

“Oh, yes, right…” Madame Andre stammered before hiking her skirts and making her way after Signor Giudicelli’s wake of destruction, Madame Firmin hot on her heels and both grovelling all the way.

“Signor, you are the indisputable star of this opera.”

“A veritable god among men.”

“The crown jewel of Paris!”

“A diamond in the rough.”

“Please, please, we’re nothing without you.”

Their showering of compliments managed to stop the warpath of the enraged tenor, who stopped to listen to his new managers with feigned disinterest while occasionally smoothing the wrinkles in his costume or checking his nails. After a few more minutes persisted of ingenuine praise, Madame Andre piped up, “Perhaps, Signor, there’s a piece you could perform for us?”

“A private preview, if you will,” Madame Firmin continued. Carlos paused in picking at his thumbnail and cast a sidelong glance at them.

“There is a little something from Act III I could sing for you,” he muttered softly. Both women wisely insisted, peppering in a few more assertions of his brilliance as a performer, before the dazzling smile returned to his face.

“If my managers command,” he agreed with a flourish and a deep bow, and strutted back to the stage with his army of followers in tow.

 


	2. Think of Me

 

Carlos snapped his fingers and barked some commands at Madame Reyer, who in turn snapped her fingers and barked some commands at the orchestra, who was rapidly flipping through sheets of music to reach the aria from Act III that Carlos mentioned. An attendant appeared with a bottle of throat spray and administered it for the tenor as he prepared to give his managers their promised private performance. The rest of the cast gathered around, several muttering to each other and rolling their eyes as Madames Andre and Firmin rejoined Madame Lefevre, who was massaging the center of her forehead with her fingers. They were beginning to understand what had moved Madame Lefevre to retire, or at least they thought they were.

A delicate piano melody started, several gossiping dancers shushed each other, Carlos shot a winning smile all around and launched into impassioned song. His voice, obviously the result of a lifetime of professional training, was intense and piercing. Several stagehands, outside of Carlos’ line of sight, sarcastically made gagging sounds and covered their ears, prompting some of the dancers to stifle their giggles. Both managers gritted their teeth and smiled and listened attentively, making sure they both looked absorbed and captivated whenever Carlos cast a glance their way to ensure he was receiving the same level of attention that was awarded to his dancing counterparts.

Only a few bars into the song, a sudden rattling was heard overhead, followed by several shrieks from chorus members. Carlos petered off and shot a look upward with a gasp as a scrim came rapidly unravelling towards him. He just barely managed to teeter back and avoid an ugly blow to the head, and was instead clapped in the chest and pinned down to the stage with a long string of Italian curses. The rest of the cast was thrown into uproarious tumult. Marcus Giry was heard above the din shouting, “She’s here! The ghost-- It’s her!” Madame Lefevre groaned and pressed her hands to both temples, shaking her head. Madames Andre and Firmin were left standing in the midst of the chaos, trying to make sense of it.

The scrim was, as quickly as possible, hauled off of a frazzled and angry Carlos as Madame Lefevre started shouting impatiently for a woman named Josephine Buquet. The woman in question, a disheveled stagehand, appeared from the wings, slipping a flask into an inner pocket of her vest.

“Don’t go blaming this on me,” she shouted right back, approaching the new and former managers, “I… Was away from my post, I’m afraid.” She craned her neck to gaze up into the catwalks she should have been in, watching her fellow stagehands hoist the fallen scrim back into place. “If there’s anyone up there, it must be the ghost.” She retreated backstage without another word, cackling amusedly.

As the panic wound down, Carlos cast his managers a cutting glare. Madame Lefevre insisted she had a carriage waiting for her outside and wished Madames Andre and Firmin the best of luck and hurried away, leaving the new managers to deal with their injured tenor’s rage. They turned to look helplessly at him before Madame Andre finally managed a weak, “Accidents to happen, Signor…”

Carlos was having none of it. “Oh no,” he shouted, tearing the wig off his head and the costume off his body and flinging it wildly across the stage, “You two have just gotten here. You have no idea how long I have been putting up with these ‘accidents’. For three years I’ve endured these ‘accidents’ without anyone doing a damned thing about them. And I will not endure a single ‘accident’ more. Call me when one of you decides to actually do something about them.” Standing now in just his underclothes, Carlos made a repeat performance of earlier, though this time much more genuine, and demanded that his clothes and all his belongings be brought, and stormed noisily offstage. Ubalda Piangi stalked up to them, hands on her hips and shoulder squared.

“Amateurs,” she snapped haughtily, before following suit with Signor Giudicelli. A general slamming of doors followed, and it became wildly obvious that Signor Giudicelli had quit the theatre. The shocked managers shared a glance, before turning to Madame Reyer.

“He isn’t really leaving, is he?” Madame Andre asked pitifully.

“He’ll be back for the premiere tonight,” Madame Firmin insisted, trying to keep the doubt out of her voice. Madame Reyer simply shook her head and shrugged, indicating it was unlikely that the tenor would ever return.

“Madames, if you’ll excuse me…” Monsieur Giry emerged from the crowd, envelope in hand, “I have an urgent message for you.”

“Pray tell, from whom, Monsieur?” Madame Firmin demanded, her patience wearing thin.

“From the Opera Ghost,” Monsieur Giry replied matter-of-factly, opening the envelope and pulling out a small leaf of paper with a few lines of messy, sweeping cursive handwriting.

“The Opera Ghost?” Madame Andre questioned dubiously, “That’s a myth. A rumor and a bedtime story to scare little ballerinas…”

“It may benefit you to believe otherwise,” Monsieur Giry advised, before reading aloud from the mysterious letter, “The ghost writes a heartfelt welcome to her Opera House-”

“Excuse me?!”

“Reminds you that she expects that her box-- that is to say Box Five-- to be left open for her for the premiere tonight, and that you may leave her salary for her there.”

“A ghost asking for a salary?” Madame Firmin snorted. But Monsieur Giry did not find the same level of amusement.

“Did Madame Lefevre not mention this to you?” he asked, “The ghost receives a salary of 20,000 francs per month, madames.”

Suddenly it wasn’t so funny. “This whole thing is nonsense!” Madame Firmin sputtered, as Madame Andre stood by looking distant and hopeless. “Ghost or no ghost… What on earth are we supposed to do about the premiere tonight?”

“Is there an understudy?” Madame Andre suddenly snapped out of her personal crisis.

“Signor Carlos would not stand for such a thing,” Monsieur Giry insisted, “But I think I know someone who could sing the part regardless.”

“Well by all means,” Madame Firmin urged with a flourish of her hands, “Bring him forward. Singlehandedly save the premiere from psychotic, spectral , money-mongering women who drop set pieces on singers and leave cryptic notes with ballet masters.” Monsieur Giry ignored the copious helpings of sarcasm and called for Christian Daae.

“A chorus boy?” Madame Andre asked incredulously as the boy in question stepped timidly forward, urged on by Marcus Giry, “I thought at least a singer with some experience…”

“I assure you,” Monsieur Giry replied, seizing both of Christian’s shoulders, “He has very promising talent, Madames.”

“Oh does he?” Madame Firmin demanded, placing her hands on her hips and facing the boy impatiently.

Christian uncomfortably swept his bangs off his forehead, blinked his big brown eyes, and stammered, “I… I have been taking lessons, Madame…”

“Give him a chance,” Marus piped up, coming forward to stand beside his father in support of his friend, who was casting him uncertain glances, “Let him sing. You don’t exactly have anything to lose.”

Madame Andre turned to her long-time friend and business partner. “He’s right you know, Rita,” she whispered, “We really don’t…”

Madame Firmin looked from her partner, to the three men, to the rest of the cast looking helpless and downcast around the stage, and heaved a sigh. “Very well, boy. Give it a shot. Don’t be shy.”

The stage was very suddenly cleared, leaving Christian Daae standing alone and looking nervously to the wings from support. Monsieur Giry nodded his approval and Marcus smiled reassuringly as Madame Reyer struck up the orchestra from the beginning of the aria once more. Christian stuttered quietly through the first few lines, his eyes cast downward. But as the music swelled and his fellow cast members offered words of encouragement, Christian raised his head and began to sing with more confidence. His voice was not as trained and polished as Carlos’ had been, but there was a genuine sweetness to it, and it was true, he did have promising talent. Everyone who heard his debut agreed that his teacher must indeed be a great one. Firmin and Andre turned to each other, triumphant grins on their faces and all notions and threats from the Opera Ghost forgotten at the prospect of premiering this new tenor for their patrons that evening.

One whirlwind of intense rehearsal later, Christian Daae found himself singing before a full house, performing the role he’d only earned that morning, and unable to keep the smile off his face. The audience was enraptured by him, several ladies swooning when his eyes fell on them as they swept across the theatre. One woman in a private box, with glossy dark blonde hair and a very expensive dress, watched especially intently and repeatedly checked her program, doubting her own eyes.

“Christian?” The Vicomtesse Rachelle Dechagny whispered softly, leaning forward in her chair to get a closer look at the singer onstage, an affectionate smile playing across her features, “Is that really you?”


	3. Angel of Music

Angel of Music

 

What had, up until that point, been Carlos’ dressing room, had at the last minute been given to Christian as the new star of the Garnier’s triumphant opera. And all the gifts and flowers that had previously been ordered to celebrate yet another one of Signor Giudicelli’s successful premieres were hastily re-addressed to Christian for his unexpected singing debut. He found himself sitting in the lavish room, surrounded on all sides with overblown bouquets of roses, some still bearing Carlos’ name messily scratched out and replaced with his own, hardly able to believe what had happened. With not a moment of professional training, in one day he’d gone from unknown chorus dancer to the city’s newest darling, with Monsieur Giry fighting off scores of young ladies that flocked to his door, wanting to take this rising star out for a social debut to match his theatrical one.

The door opened momentarily to the celebratory noise of actors and stagehands beyond, and Christian turned prepared to fight off another wave of dinner invitations, only to be pleasantly surprised by his long-time friend Marcus slipping into his newly-awarded dressing room. The other boy beamed at him, moving forward to give him a congratulatory clap on the shoulder.

“I had no idea you had it in you,” Marcus heralded, suddenly distracted by a bottle of fine wine that mingled with the other gifts.

“Neither did I,” Christian admitted, feeling his face flush a deep crimson and bowing his head to look at his shoes.

“You were amazing!” Marcus continued, popping the cork out of the wine bottle and filling two glasses that were nearby, adorned in gaudy gold ribbon. Christian laughed nervously, fingering the gold ribbon on his glass as it was handed to him while Marcus sipped at his own.

“It wasn’t all that good,” he muttered softly before finally taking an experimental sip of the wine. He didn’t claim to know much about wine, but he could still taste how expensive it was. Marcus had already finished one glass and was pouring himself another, inviting himself to take a seat in one of the plush chairs that furnished the room. He gestured towards Christian with his glass, his jovial face suddenly going serious.

“No really, Christian,” he insisted gravely, and then adding with a reassuring smile, “Your mother would be proud.”

“I think she really is,” Christian answered, pulling a second chair up close to his friend and taking a seat himself, slowly sipping his wine again.

“How do you mean?”

Christian swirled the remaining liquid in his glass, not meeting Marcus’ eyes. He thought, somewhere over the commotion outside his door, he could hear a soft female whisper carry through the room, but Marcus didn’t seem to hear anything. A shiver ran through him and he placed his glass on the nearby table.

“It’s just… Something my mother said to me. Before she died.”

“What was that?” Marcus questioned, leaning forward, also setting his wine glass aside half-full.

“I don’t want to say,” Christian dismissed, running his fingers through his dark hair, “You won’t believe it.”

“Christian,” Marcus replied, raising his eyebrows, “You forget I have lived in this Opera House for literally my entire life. I’ll believe anything. Try me.”

Christian bit his lower lip and took a cursory glance around the room, as though to make sure no one was listening, though he knew that no one needed to be in the room for him to be overheard. And he couldn’t help but feel the silent presence of someone eavesdropping, although he hadn’t been able to shake that sensation for as long as he’d been living in the theatre dormitories. He pulled his chair a little closer to his friend and leaned in, his elbows resting on his knees to speak to his friend in low tones.

“When my mother found out she was going to die,” Christian started softly, “I was, obviously, devastated. She was the only family I had, after all. And as the weeks went on, and her health got worse and worse, she would always try to comfort me by promising that when she died, she would send me… Well, an angel. An Angel of Music, specifically. And that I didn’t have to be afraid because, in that way, she’d always be with me.

“Well, I was old enough at the time to know she was just trying to make me feel better. But then, after her funeral, when I was brought here… I started to hear a woman’s voice.”

“A woman’s voice?” Marcus put in, furrowing his brow.

“I know it sounds ridiculous,” Christian continued, “But I swear it’s true. I’d hear her late at night, speaking or singing softly to me, and I could never tell where the voice came from… But she started coaching me, and I just… It just felt like, maybe my mother really had sent me an angel. So I wouldn’t be alone.”

Marcus had gone quiet, a look of concern radiating in his eyes. “Christian,” he said softly, “This voice… This woman who taught you how to sing… You really think it’s your mother?”

“I know it sounds crazy-” Christian replied.

“It does sound crazy,” Marcus interrupted, “Generally disembodied voices in the night is a cause for concern, Christian… Maybe it was just a dream?”

“It wasn’t a dream, Marcus,” Christian snapped defensively, “She’s real. She’s always there. I can’t explain how, but she’s always with me, somewhere. I hear her everywhere…” He trailed off, looking around the room again and trying to stifle another tremor that ran through him. Marcus placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey, calm down,” he soothed, “Everything’s alright, Christian. There’s no one there. You should rest. You’ve had a long day…”

The door opened again and this time admitted Marcus’ father, Monsieur Giry, barking over his shoulder for the rabble to disperse. Marcus got to his feet hurriedly as his father entered the room and rounded on him.

“Marcus,” he scolded, “Go on and leave Christian alone. Round up the other dancers- I don’t want them going out and getting up to all manner of sins tonight. I’m calling an impromptu rehearsal immediately.”

Marcus muttered a grumpy agreement to his father’s orders, offered Christian another encouraging word of congratulations aside, and left the room. Monsieur Giry spotted the two neglected glasses of wine, sniffed disapprovingly, and dumped both of them into a nearby vase of flowers.

“You did quite well,” Monsieur Giry offered, turning back to smile at Christian with something close to fatherly affection, “I’d say you have a promising career ahead of you.”

“Oh I’m not sure about that,” Christian argued.

“No,” Monsieur Giry insisted, the smile melting away, “You’ve impressed quite a lot of people tonight.” He patted the boy on his shoulder before moving to leave the room. As he reached the door he turned to ass over his shoulder, “Including her.”

With that, he slammed the door and was gone, leaving Christian alone and staring after him in silent disbelief. The noise outside had dispersed as everyone either left to enjoy their social engagements or grumble through their sudden dance rehearsal. Christian wondered, has Monsieur Giry been referring to his dead mother, or someone else? The silence was suddenly oppressive, and he found himself humming softly to drown out the whispers he was sure he would soon hear from the walls around him.

The door suddenly opened a third time and Christian whirled toward it in a panic, unsure who could possibly be visiting him now. He was startled to find a slight woman, holding a single red rose in her small gloved hands. She brushed her honey-colored hair out of her eyes and smiled warmly at him.

“So good to see you again, Christian,” she breathed, closing the door behind her.

Politely but uncertainly, he smiled back. “Do I know you, ma’am?” he questioned, prompting a small laugh from her.

“Really, you don’t remember?” she challenged him incredulously, gingerly placing her hands on her hips so as not to damage the rose she held. “That’s the gratitude I get after nearly drowning in the ocean going after that ridiculous red scarf of yours?”

“Red scarf?”

“Not to mention the scolding I got from my mother for spoiling my best dress!” she continued, unable to suppress her smile in spite of her feigned crossness. “So much for good old-fashioned chivalry.”

“Rachelle!” Christian suddenly exclaimed as recognition swept over him. He could hardly conjure the memory of his childhood friend whom he’d spent so many hours with before his mother’s health had begun to fail. But here she was, undoubtedly the same girl he’d once been so close to, and yet no longer a girl any longer, but a fetching young woman. He couldn’t stop himself from surging forward and scooping her up into a close embrace, lifting her off the ground and causing her to drop the act and unleash a small, girlish giggle.

“It’s been much too long,” she said with a sigh as he placed her back on the ground and she extended the now-slightly-crushed rose towards him.

“It has,” he agreed, accepting her gift and twirling it absentmindedly between his fingers, “Not since that day on the beach, I imagine.”

“Do you still have that scarf?” Rachelle asked playfully.

“Unfortunately, no,” Christian replied, “I’m afraid it got left behind when I moved here from my mother’s house…”

Rachelle’s smile turned to a look of sad sympathy, and she stroked Christian’s arm lovingly. “I heard what happened,” she soothed, “I am so sorry, Christian. I know how much she meant to you.”

He shook his head. “It’s alright, really,” he said in what he hoped was a reassuring tone, “In a way she’s still with me.”

Rachelle’s smile returned. “Oh that’s right,” she sighed, “I forgot all about the Angel of Music.”

“I told you about the Angel of Music?” Christian asked, shocked. He took another nervous look around the room, taking a step back from her so her hand fell away from his arm. Confused, she folded her hands in front of her.

“Your mother told us both about the Angel of Music,” she explained, “Don’t you remember? Even before she got sick she told us stories.”

“Yes…” Christian muttered in response as the memories wafted back to him, “I suppose she did.”

“Well,” Rachelle continued, “If tonight is any indication, I’d say your mother made good on her promise, and an Angel of Music really has blessed you.”

“More than you know,” Christian answered, continuing to avoid her eyes as he cast glances at every shadow that stretched across the walls. Rachelle ignored this last comment and seized his hand.

“Christian,” she pleaded, “It’s been so long since we’ve seen each other. Won’t you come to dinner with me?”

“I don’t think-” Christian tried to protest.

“I’m afraid I must insist,” Rachelle didn’t let him finish, and released his hand to move back towards the door, “I’ll be back momentarily… I’ll have the carriage brought around. You get changed, and I promise I’ll have you back in time to get ample sleep for rehearsal tomorrow. Sound fair?”

“Rachelle, really, I-”

But she was already gone. He could hear the click of her heels as she retreated down the hall, leaving him feeling alone, exposed, and helpless.

God, she would not be happy with this...

 


End file.
